


Pad Thai

by Davechicken



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Excessive bitchiness, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Crowley is staying in the bunker and has a thing or two to say...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pad Thai

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arabwel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel/gifts).



It started out with the shopping list.

"Give me that," Crowley insisted, clicking his fingers at Dean.

"Dude, why?"

"I need to make some changes."

"Why can't you just tell me what you want, and I write... you know, why do you even _ask_ for things when you could just magic them in or some shit?"

"It's the principle of the matter."

The demon and the hunter stood their ground, neither one of them blinking. This stretched on for much longer than was comfortable or even necessary. Eventually Dean gave up and pushed the pen and paper into the demon's chest.

"Fine. Just... whatever. Whatever to get you to shut up."

Crowley hesitated a moment longer - just to _really_ hammer the point home - and then he took the list. The first thing he did was scribble some 'u's into the 'flavors' to turn them into English. He hated the circumcised version of the word, and always imagined the pronunciation slightly different without it, it was more... flay-vore than flahy-vhour... 

"I want some real food getting in, this time," he insisted. "As much as you can do. I don't know how you can call those yellow lumps of plastic 'cheese'. I swear it's just the congealed versions of your horrid squeezy bottles and those ridiculous slices where the packaging is just as artificial as the contents. Why can't you get a nice brie, a camembert, a wensleydale or - god forbid - some cashel..."

"Dude, are those even words?"

"Heathen."

The demon added more things on in his very neat cursive, scowling at the haphazard handwriting above. He was almost tempted to rewrite the whole thing.

"Not to mention chocolate. What is wrong with your chocolate? Do you all have an aversion to cows? You ruin everything they produce. Cows, Dean, cows. They give you so much and you turn them into processed bread filler, when you could be using them for steak and for the most exquisite tastes known to mankind..."

"Dude. We do steaks," Dean said, resting his arms on the counter and waiting for the latest wave of 'why you all are useless' to pass.

"And your alcohol. I mean it is bad enough you seem to only drink beer instead of adult alcohols with real craftmanship, but would it kill you to get an artisan brew? Or, perhaps, something with more than fermented gnats' piss?"

"Give me the damn list, Crowley."

Crowley did.

***

Sam was trying to ignore him as if he was Satan incarnate - which was really rather unkind, because Crowley was nothing like Lucifer - and he kept hunkering lower over his laptop.

"...complete inability to differentiate between anything beyond your borders, the idea that all Asian countries are divided into 'China', 'Japan', 'Good Korea' and 'Bad Korea'... the majority of Europe condensed into 'London', 'cheese-eating surrender monkeys', 'Germans' and then... well that's probably all you know as standard. I suspect the majority of people don't even know where Russia is on a map and that's big enough that if you randomly spun a globe and put your finger on it..."

"Crowley..."

"And then there's your political structure. It's like your whole country has bi-polar disorder. You spend far too much time on flipping a coin when really it's never going to change much and your torturous 'democracy' is just as corrupt as the petty tin-pot dictatorships you keep overthrowing in the name of oil and justice..."

"Crowley..."

"And your sports. Your sports! Big, strapping young men wearing kevlar just to play rugby, or _rounders_. Which, let's face it, eleven-year-old girls play in just their gym shorts! How can you call it football when you never use your feet? Or the World Series when you don't even invite Canada?"

" _Crowley_..."

"And your complete lack of vocabulary. You're all backwater hicks. Even if you _did_ manage to find a very diluted and crass sense of humour under all your stifled speech, you _can't_ tell me you can live full and complete lives when your arsenal is so severely depleted that 'douchebag' is the single most interesting insult to have ever been uttered on this continent by native inhabitants..."

Sam closed his laptop and walked away, leaving the demon to fume alone.

***

Cas was next. Cas was attempting to watch television. Crowley was sitting beside him.

"I often think that someone should stage an intervention about how attached Dean is to that car. It's not healthy. It's borderline psychotic at times, and I should know psychosis."

"It is harmless, Crowley."

"And the _music_ he plays. If you can call it music. I am as fond of classic rock as the next man is, but some _variety_ would be nice, is all..."

"Perhaps you could buy him some alternatives?"

"And the endless _sitting and talking about their feelings_. Who does that, Cas? Who but crazy people? Are they crazy? Am I? Have they driven me that way?"

"I suspect at times that they have."

"And another thing, have they never heard of bathrobes? I mean, I understand they don't need slippers even if I think seeing their bare feet padding around is faintly disgusting, but bathrobes? Have they no sense of shame?"

"This is their home," Cas tried to explain.

"Not that it's any better when they _do_ put clothes on. Although they manage to make the effort and look presentable when it's cover, their obsession with denim and plaid makes it look like they walked straight out of the past... or maybe they just want to be a lumberjack?"

"I do not think that career option has ever occurred to them, but it is possible it is subliminal."

"It would explain the lacy pink underwear. Dean clearly wants to be a girlie, just like his dear, dead papa..."

"DUDE YOU DID NOT JUST--" Dean had overheard the last comment, and was now being restrained by Sam.

"Sorry, Dean, but it's true. Did you start doing it to try and replace your missing mother figure? Is that when your Electra complex kicked in?"

"I AM GOING TO KILL YOU."

The demon smiled sweetly.

"You're a dick," Sam said, pushing Dean behind him. "You know you can just ask if we can have Chinese takeout for a change."

"Where would the fun be in that?" Crowley asked, batting his long eyelashes. "I want pad thai."

"I'll pad _his_ thai," Dean shot, shaking Sam off and stalking out of the room.

"I would like the duck," Cas said, and went back to watching the television.


End file.
